


Tread Quietly, Lest We Hear

by emmram



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Gen, s5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-08
Updated: 2011-12-08
Packaged: 2017-10-27 02:20:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/290584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmram/pseuds/emmram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post 5.22. Dean looks over, watches Sam dying, and thinks it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tread Quietly, Lest We Hear

**Author's Note:**

> This is another one of my s5 finale reaction-fics that I wrote during the s5-s6 hiatus. It's weird, and it's a non-linear narrative - just a bit of experimentation on my part. There are vague references to spoilers for s6 that I knew at the time.

  
_  
**Tread Quietly, Lest We Hear**   
_   


Dean thinks about how it was all supposed to be simple - enter; find, salt and torch the remains of the abandoned hiker; a couple of banishment rituals to ensure the job is complete; exit right - no cues, thanks. Rehearsed this about a couple million times.

Except _simple_ never works that way. The job isn't supposed to be simple; that's why so few enter it, and fewer still survive five years into it. The cake is a lie.

Dean thinks he should've known this.

Dean also thinks that if he had a buck for every time he thought that, Sammy wouldn't have needed a scholarship to go to Stanford.

 _Sammy_.

Dean shudders against the snow, lying on one side, ice crystals digging into his cheek, his body awash with pain. He huffs and forces air between his burning lips, but only succeeds in fucking up his already-blurred vision more as his breath fogs in front of his face. Dean groans in frustration, before he thinks that him not being able to see might actually be not such a bad thing, after all.

At least then he can't see his brother any more.

* * *

"I'm not sure what I'm supposed to say."

Samuel Campbell sets down his cup of tea and looks Sam in the eye.

"Something," Sam says without thinking, his voice still scratchy and breaking at irregular intervals. Castiel told him that he may never get his normal voice back, and Sam has come to accept that (but Dean thinks otherwise; of _course_ Dean thinks otherwise, although he knows Sam's voice is the least of the things he needs to be in denial about). "Some answers. Why - why did you choose this life?"

"I didn't choose it," Samuel replies. "It was an inheritance."

"You could've ended it with you," Sam insists. "You-you need have n-never brought your wife and daughter into this life."

Samuel smiles. "Perhaps," he says. "Perhaps I could've done that and lived a lie, instead. Perhaps I could have lived a long and healthy life, seen my daughter grow into a woman, been proud of the men her sons would become, and let countless other people die, instead. Can you live like that, Sam?" He carefully adjusts the teacup on the saucer, aligning the rim just right with the depression in the middle. "But of course, you already know the answer to that, don't you?"

Sam thinks of Jessica and Lisa and Haley and Andy and Pamela and so many countless others; he thinks that the answer is too complicated to be articulated, but that he _knows_ it, anyhow. But he persists, anyway. "So if it-it isn't me, then it's g-going to be somebody else, is that right? But _all_ of l-life is-is like that -"

"Of course," Samuel says, "you can _choose_. You can choose to blindfold yourself to what you know is out there, and live the life you think you deserve. But then some other poor bastard unfortunate enough to be born to John Winchester ends the world, and you with it. In the end, Sam," he continues, leaning forward, still smiling, "the choice ceases to be a _choice_ at all, and becomes a responsibility, instead."

"A r-responsibility that-that never ends," Sam says quietly, thinking of eternity spent in cold fire ( _and the echoes of HIS fears, HIS failure, THEIR pain, THEIR deaths oh countless deaths and suffering, all because of HIM please oh god he is so sorry, so sorry, just let it STOP_ )

The door bursts open, and Dean barges in, frantic and one hand already wrapped around the Colt in his jacket. "Sam? Sam!" His eyes shift to the figure sitting across from Sam. "Missouri? Missouri, what -?"

 _no, not revenge._   
_  
**redemption**   
_   
_._

Sam closes his eyes and thinks what a fruitless mission it has been so far.

* * *

"So, uh, Sam," Lisa says with forced cheer, "can I get you something to drink?"

Dean watches warily as Sam shakes his head slowly. "No, thanks."

Lisa casts something of a helpless look in his direction, and, yeah, under better circumstances Dean would _totally_ sympathise with her, but he can't seem to tear his gaze off Sam's face, and can't bring himself to care. "Well," Lisa says finally, making sure Dean doesn't miss her glare, "I'll be leaving you guys to it, then." With that, she stalks out of the room.

Sam doesn't move.

Dean doesn't move.

Sam's wearing tattered clothing that seem to be just the wrong fit - thin shirt struggling to envelope his broad, hulking shoulders; old jacket barely hanging on by its last threads from the look of it; faded jeans ending a few inches above his scuffed and soiled sneakers. He's spattered with dirt and blood, his hair limp with sweat and grease.

 _This is Sam_ , he'd said to Lisa, with wondrous joy. _You know, Sam. My brother. He's back_. He couldn't - can't - look past his own luck, his disbelief, his guilt and fear and the nagging sense that the moment he stops watching Sam, the moment he reaches out to touch him, he will disappear, like so much dust in a strong wind.

But he's beginning to get why she looks so freaked.

But there are no bullet holes; no quiet, other-worldly insanity in his eyes, and Dean can only be thankful that Sam was _Sam_ enough to think of getting a change of clothes before meeting him. Was - _is_ \- always a freak about things like that.

Then, as always, the fear overrides the joy and the disbelief and the gratitude, for his brother hasn't spoken a word to him since suddenly materialising in his backyard.

Sam finally lifts his head, and Dean's jaw clenches - not just because Sam's face looks gaunt and anaemic, with big shadows under sunken eyes, the hollow cheeks; but also because half his face is missing. There's a huge chunk of flesh missing from below Sam's left eye, the corrugated edges of the wound indicating that it'd - it'd been _gnawed_ off. The surface left behind is pink-red and smooth and healthy, and Dean can't help but stare and stare and _stare_ , because what had _happened_ to his brother? (although he should know, shouldn't he? oh yes he should)

Sam smiles - if the slightest flicker of the corner of his lips can be called one - and fingers the wound on his face. "Hellhound," he says, his voice sounding like it's been dragged across gravel face-down.

Tears prick at Dean's eyes. "Sam -"

"Jesse, Dean." Sam blinks and frowns, as if struggling to find words. "Bro-brought me b-back, think. Can't b-be sshhure."

Dean's jaw drops open. " _Jesse_? Why?"

( _because he is the Antichrist with the power to destroy us all and that's why he's brought Sam back, Sam who is the weapon and Jesse, its wielder_ )

"H-hunting," Sam says, and suddenly smiles - a _real_ smile where he shows slightly yellowed teeth and his lone surviving dimple; a smile which still somehow has the power to light up a whole room and rekindle the ashes of some forgotten fire in Dean's heart. "I-I've come back c-cozzz we hhaave a j-job to do, and we haaven't ff-finishhed it yet."

Sam's smile fades a little from the sheer effort it seems to have taken him to say all that (and that sends a fierce ache through Dean, because this is his geek-boy college-educated walking-encyclopaedia _brother_ , and he shouldn't be having so much trouble merely speaking). But Dean smiles in his stead, grin stretching from one end of his contracting world to the other. "Family business, right?"

Sam nods and reaches out to touch Dean's hand; as his very solid, very _real_ touch first hovers hesistantly, then clasps Dean's hand with a strength born out of desperation and relief and pain and gratitude, Dean thinks his world is finally complete.

* * *

"Oh, we loved him so, it was _such_ a great blow to _all_ of us when he - oh, when he _killed_ himself -"

"I know, I know," Dean tries to manage, wondering why in the world Sam's not even trying to participate in the investigation and help him out, here; he's just looking to the side like there's someplace else he'd rather like to be. Dean bites back on a familiar frustration. "If you can just tell us where his body was found -"

The woman clasps her hands agitatedly and looks at him with wide, wet eyes. "In his bedroom, _hanging from the ceiling fan_ -"

"You're lying," Sam says suddenly, his gaze abruptly focussing on the woman. He tilts his head, smiling a little, and unease coils in the pit of Dean's stomach; the woman takes a few steps back, blinking. "Tell the truth."

"I killed him," the woman says evenly. " _I_ did, and it was the best thing I'd ever done."

Sam nods. "S-see? That wasn't so-o hard."

Dean can only stare and be afraid.

* * *

Bobby passes a beer each to Sam and Dean, heaves himself onto the edge of his worktable and drinks deeply while both Winchester brothers stand dumbly, bottles in hands. Bobby swallows, smacks his lips, and squints at them. "What, you two've suddenly become teetotallers over the last coupla months?"

Dean shudders like he's come out of a trance and takes a swig himself; Sam merely sets the bottle aside, and picks up Bobby's notes. "So this-this nest of dem-oons. What d-do we know so far?"

Bobby doesn't answer for a few moments; Sam wonders if the man is still wary of him, maybe even _afraid_ (Dean says that's a load of bullshit, but Sam can see his brother more clearly than ever before, and he can _see_ the fear in Dean's eyes). Bobby clears his throat, and speaks. "A few towns over, about seven or eight of 'em, I'm guessing. The omens and weather patterns have been all over the place, _and_ ," he jabs his finger at a pile of newspaper clippings next to him, "reports of acute, abnormal behaviour in otherwise normal people; spates of unexplained murders."

"Guess they're pissed off that we ruined their big party," Dean says. He wipes his sleeve across his mouth and grins stupidly.

Sam keeps flicking through the pages, not really reading them any more. An unexplained sense of foreboding has settled in his stomach; an electrical tingle just at the edges of his perception warns of impending disaster.

He can _feel_ -

\- demons, like they're a part of _him_

\- oily and black and rancid -

"It-it's a little unusual, don't you th-think?" Sam says, looking up at Bobby. "I mean, d-demons in grrooups. They usually t-tend to work alone."

Bobby shrugs. "Maybe they've just banded together post-Apocalypse, or somethin'. If the resentment is strong enough, it can bring together anything."

"Well said, well said," comes a pleasant voice from the hallway entrance, and Sam doesn't need to look up to know that it's Crowley.

"Why the hell is _he_ still visiting, Bobby?" Dean growls.

"Because he happens to have a mite more common sense than you," Crowley says, smiling. "But of course, that's not really saying much, is it?" His gaze moves from Dean to Sam, and the smile widens. "Ah, Sam. Wonderful to see you again, so - well, not whole, but healthy. I hope your trip down there helped you sort out some of your... shall we say, deeper-rooted anger issues."

"What the hell, Bobby?" Dean asks again.

"He gives valuable info."

Dean goggles at him disbelievingly. "You're trusting - ?"

"Really, Dean," Crowley interrupts, "we don't have time for your problems with trusting demons - which, I might add, is a tad hypocritical when you were happy to trust _me_ when there was an apocalypse a looming - we need to work on this group before they disband again." When Dean still glares stonily, Crowley adds, "You seem to forget that I'm a pariah in the demon world. I betrayed our creator. I can only benefit from their continued massacre."

"What about the deal?" Sam asks. A sudden silence falls in the room as the three men stare at him. "You kn-now. The deal you made with B-bobby."

Crowley gives a sickly sweet smile. "What about it? It's null and void. He's already died once."

Sam shakes his head. "No. It ca-can't be that-that easy." He smiles a little. "In f-fact, I'm will-ling to bet anything that it isn't." He lifts a hand, and for the first time, terror registers on Crowley's face.

"Sam?" Dean's hand hovers near Sam's shoulder and Sam can feel his and Bobby's confusion and fear like the air is cloying with it.

"Tell me," Sam says and closes his fist; Crowley's whole body jerks like it's touched a live wire and his mouth drops open in a silent scream. "Tell me: this is all a t-trap, rright? Y-you're g-going to brrring Bobby's d-deal due."

" _No_ ," Crowley snarls, before his body jerks again, and his eyes roll back into his head. "Tell me," Sam says simply.

When Crowley is able to look at them again, his eyes are pitch-black. "Crossroad demons _never_ back away from a deal!" he spits.

Bobby gasps. "You bastard!" Dean thunders. "You promised that you were going to give Bobby's soul back!"

Crowley grins fiercely at him. "Demons lie, son."

Before anybody else can react, Sam has closed his hand into a fist one last time; Crowley's body jerks, red-orange light pulsing through its pores, before it finally slumps to the ground, motionless. There is a _thump_ as Bobby falls to the ground as well, his legs limp underneath him. He bends over them with a kind of wounded cry that Sam and Dean have never heard from him before. "My legs... can't _feel_ them -"

"The d-deal is over," Sam says. "He's dead."

Dean closes his eyes and swallows.

* * *

"I'm sorry, Dean."

"Stop it, Sam. And just what're you apologising for, anyway?"

"I s- _see_ , now, and-and, there's m-more things for m-me to be sooorry about than I'll ev-ver fit into one ap-pology."

"Forget it, Sam. We have a job to do, remember? Our time on the stage's over; it's back to usual programming, folks. By the way, 's that half-caf double shot vanilla latte? You're still a girl - can't be too much changed with you, then."

"J-jerk."

"Bitch."

* * *

Dean opens his eyes again, unaware of when or why he'd closed them in the first place. Most of his body now feels numb, a sort of pleasant feeling really, like collapsing into your motel bed after a particularly exhausting but satisfying hunt.

 _Maybe this is it_ , he thinks. _We die for real this time_.

And that? Is definitely not such a bad thing at all.

God knows they've fought enough; lived five lifetimes in one. They destroyed the world and then put it back together again, and the world went on like nothing'd happened; and so did they go on. Fighting the good fight. Ultimately, Dean knows, for all their promises and secret desires for the apple-pie life, that fight is all they know how to do. Watching out for each other is all they know how to _be_.

And if it has to end like this, Dean can accept that.

They deserve an end.

Sam's lying spreadeagled a few metres away from him, a large pool of blood soaking into the snow underneath him, bright red and stark against the blinding white.

Dean looks over, watches Sam dying, and thinks it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

He closes his eyes.

The world sleeps on.

 _  
**Finis**   
_


End file.
